


I know that you would want it  (if I could sink my teeth into you)

by objectlesson



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bruises, Confessions, Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Painplay, Pining, Rimming, Romance, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22371868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Jaskier feels like a dog, on most days. A stray, drooling dog outside of a butcher shop, gazing longingly through smudged glass at sides of beef dripping blood into black earth. Or actually, more like aguard dog,the sort meant to herd livestock. Forever cursed tocarefor, toprotect,towatchexactly what it would prefer to bite into.The thing in question, of course, the metaphorical pork chop, the sacrificial lamb, is Geralt of Fucking Rivia. Or more specifically, hisass.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 87
Kudos: 1180
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	I know that you would want it  (if I could sink my teeth into you)

**Author's Note:**

> finally, the porn I actually wanted to write. I just think Geralt's lovely bottom needs to be properly worshipped, that's all. This is rw and unbetaed and messy as fuck and also, again, I watched this series tipsy in three days so I apologize for canon inconsistency! Title is from Aly and Aj because I'm classy liker that bitches. enjoy.

Jaskier feels like a dog, on most days. A stray, drooling dog outside of a butcher shop, gazing longingly through smudged glass at sides of beef dripping blood into black earth. Or actually, more like a _guard dog,_ the sort meant to herd livestock. Forever cursed to _care_ for, to _protect,_ to _watch_ exactly what it would prefer to bite into. 

The thing in question, of course, the metaphorical pork chop, the sacrificial lamb, is Geralt of Fucking Rivia. Or more specifically, his _ass._

Jaskier thought it would take several weeks, maybe even _months_ to seduce Geralt, or at least present himself conveniently at the right moment, after so much liquor and so much loneliness Geralt got tired of pushing him away and simply succumbed to what would be a very, very good blowjob. Instead, he’s spent a whole year composing songs about a man who has perhaps spoken a grand total of one hundred words to him, save for an innumerable list of _go aways,_ which Jaskier is not counting anymore. He thought Geralt was only _playing_ at complete and utter impenetrability. He thought he had to be _achingly_ lonely, (or at least aching _somewhere)_ under all that armor. 

It turns out he either has a will of steel, or is somehow _genuinely_ indifferent to Jaskier. He doesn't _seem_ indifferent, though, he seems reluctantly and grudgingly fond of him. Geralt is the sort of man who might kill him if he hated him, or they would _at least_ have had hate sex a long time ago, if it were that simple.

That's what Jaskier tells himself, anyway. It softens the repeated blow of rejection. 

——

For a moment, Jaskier considers the possibility Geralt simply _doesn’t_ _possess_ carnal desires in the slightest. But eventually, he witnesses him stumbling into brothels with coin clutched in a massive fist enough times to know that’s not the case. Jaskier then briefly tries on the idea of growing his hair out and stealing a dress and bodice and seeing if _that_ does the trick. It’s worked more than a few times on far more rigid men in the past, but _then_ Geralt royally fucks up his whole theory by disappearing into a man’s quarters one time and reappearing several hours later, sweat-shiny with his hair mussed up and a horrible plum colored mark on his throat that makes Jaskier physically sick to look at. That mark should be from _his_ mouth. _He_ should be running his fingers over it at night, pressing into the bruise to make Geralt hiss and glare at him before that glare cracks and dissolves into the slightest of smiles because Jaskier is fairly certain he could make Geralt smile, if he were allowed to suck on his neck. 

Instead of getting to suck _anything,_ though, Jaskier is instead cast not just as bard and companion, but as nursemaid. He supposes this is a natural symptom of befriending a Witcher, tending to the wounds left behind by slaying monsters. Still, it’s absolute torture. Getting to _touch_ Geralt all the time, sew up gashes with tender hands, rub poultices and herb blends over bruises and weeping, blisters and burns.

He wonders if sheer exposure will dampen the fire of his want, but instead, it only inflames it. Tosses oil on hot coals, because Geralt is _just_ as unfairly, inhumanly sculpted under those leather trousers in _real life_ as he is in Jaskier’s overactive imagination. As a result, he’s a highly unprofessional nurse, always ogling and biting his lips and lingering too long in hopes Geralt might use him for something other than his impeccably neat stitches. 

However, Geralt barely seems to notice, and tragically, nothing at all changes in the slightest. 

—-

It’s cold, probably, even beside their raging fire. Jaskier can’t tell, though, because his cheeks are fucking _burning._

“Tell me again, oh fierce White Wolf, _how_ you managed to do all this when you _didn’t_ have me?” he asks where he’s sitting cross-legged with Geralt’s heavy, bleeding thigh draped heavily over his lap. The weight of it is so substantial he’s going numb, and he thinks this might be hell, if it’s not heaven. Jury’s still out. His hands shake when he gets to touch Geralt like this, so they’re sharing a bottle of liquor, something violently green which tastes like fermented weeds and makes Jaskier’s tongue tingle. 

“Poorly,” Geralt offers without explanation. 

“Oh I know _that_ much, I’ve seen those hideous scars. Looks like you just sort of left them be and hoped for the worst. Truly shocking you never died of infection.” 

“Hm,” Geralt says, lips pressed to thick glass as he swallows. The firelight is dancing maddeningly in the sadness-stricken gold of his eyes, and this is the moment Jaskier realizes with horror that he does not _only_ want Geralt to savagely fuck him up against a wall with his thighs spread wide around that broad, muscled waist. He also wants to cup his face between his hands and tell him, _I’ve fallen quite foolishly in love with you, Witcher._

Geralt would not grace this confession with a response, Jaskier suspects. He might roll his eyes, or he might sigh and turn around, as infuriatingly unreadable as he always is. 

Jaskier chews his lip, and pushes the hand-carved bone-needle through the meat of Geralt’s quadricep resolutely. Then he takes another swig of liquor, because again, his hands have begun to shake. 

—-

Geralt’s ass seems to take more fatal blows than the rest of him, as if the whole world and all its ugliest monsters are obsessed with that especially glorious bit of his already glorious body as much as Jaskier is. It is a rather large target, after all. 

Unfortunately, this means that Jaskier is cursed with the distinct pleasure of getting to see it all the time, in various states of disrepair. He also is cursed with the distinct _frustration_ of never, ever getting to _do_ anything about it, because every time he makes a comment about letting his hands wander or all the things his fingers are good at besides plucking poisonous barbs from awful gashes, he’s met with such little encouragement or even _acknowledgement_ he simply could not proceed in good conscience. Jaskier needs to be needed, or at least _wanted,_ on some level. Geralt merely _tolerates_ him. 

He seems to _know_ how Jaskier feels, and it doesn’t even deter him away from requesting carve out whatever claw is lodged in his Gluteus Maximus and patch up the wound. That is how _little_ he cares about Jaskier and his affections. Geralt seems to view him as a convenient extra pair of hands, or perhaps, a dutiful guard dog, which would explain why Jaskier feels like one all the goddamned time. 

—-

The next time Jaskier’s services are needed, the wounds begin beneath Geralt’s scapulae, and trail all the way down to his hamstrings. Whatever it was (Jaskier’s ears are ringing too loudly to hear, they _always_ ring when Gerald is injured, even if it’s not serious,) seemed to grip him at the lowest point and drag upwards to bracket his spine. The cuts are not deep, but they are impressively long, like jagged roads to nowhere. Jaskier watches as Geralt strips out of his armor and torn, bloodied tunic, muscles ripping in the candle-light, body seemingly too large for this tiny, cheap room Jaskier rented for them above the tavern. “I don’t think they need stitches,” Geralt grinds out, wincing as he untangles the tie from his hair and lets is cascade around his shoulders like a halo. “Just to be cleaned.” 

“Perhaps let me be the judge of that, it’s not like _you_ have the dreadful panoramic view I do,” Jaskier tuts, steering Geralt to the bed and watching him flop heavily onto it, stomach first. He buries his face in Jaskier’s rumpled sheets, and of course, he’s left to wonder if them _smell_ like him, if his desire is something that leaves ghosts. He's not exactly certain what extra sensory powers being a Witcher includes, but he feels like Geralt always makes an all-too-knowing _face_ at him after he’s jacked off in a room they share, even if it’s _hours_ later, like he can sense the remaining bitter notes in the air like memories. 

He digs in in Geralt’s leather knapsack until he finds the appropriate potions. At this point, he’s not sure what they’re made of and he has not the slightest idea what they’re called, but he knows they they _do._ Blue for numbing, amber for sanitation, green to leech the poison out, crimson to reduce swelling. He grabs them all, because he is in love, and such things have made him paranoid, over-cautious. 

Geralt lies in stoic silence as Jaskier pours them both generous mugs of ale, and sits gingerly upon the mattress beside him with an entire collection of glass bottles clinking together musically in his lap. His gaze trails down the curve of his spine, the way it dips into an angled concave before the swell of his ass, pale and dusted in coarse, spun-gold hair now matted down into haphazard swirls with blood. A few months ago, perhaps, Jaskier would have quipped and joked and maybe even _sung_ his way through this. But things are different, now. Wanting Geralt hurts more than it warms his gut, titillates him to the point to requiring distraction. It just stings and sits heavy and thick in his throat, though not so heavy and thick as the image of his flesh torn, his chest heaving. Jaskier wets a rag with warm water and begins to clean him up, thoroughly irritated that this has _stopped_ being fun, and he’s _still here,_ doing it anyway. He used to think he had the power, the flexibility and self-possession and free, creative spirit required to simply flit from one fascinating person to another. He fancied himself a poet, as inconstant as the wind, following adventure and thrill where it took him. 

But here he is. Wiping blood from the generous heft of Geralt’s ass with a gentle, longing hand, all the while _knowing_ he’ll never get to fuck it. He is not having an adventure, and he is not thrilled. All the shine has been rubbed from this situation until there’s nothing but tarnished silver and aimless, pathetic yearning left. “Do you _try_ to get near-fatally wounded every time you take on a job, or is this born of ineptitude?” he snaps, voice coming out harsher than he intends as he sloshes some sanitation potion over the wound. It sizzles, rivulets of diluted blood sliding down Geralt’s obliques if it’s not pooling in the small of his back. It’s _dreadful,_ how lovely he is. 

“I killed it. I survived. That’s not ineptitude, I did my job,” Geralt mumbles into his own arm. 

Jaskier wants to dig his fingers into the cuts, which he’s now realizing as he cleans away the blood, really _are_ shallow. Geralt so rarely comes back with superficial wounds, so he’s learned to fear the worst. 

He dabs his skin dry, hands lingering pitifully. “I just don’t understand why you _nearly get killed_ every time. Remember, you could maim the thing and leave it to bleed out in the forest and I’d _still_ write that you choked it out barehanded or sliced your way from the inside of it spectacularly like some hero. I’d still wax poetic about your snowy locks in the sunshine. You don’t _have_ to invent your own glory, I’ll invent it _for_ you. _Please_ don’t go flaying yourself to bits _just_ to have a better story.” 

Geralt scoffs, turning his head so that he can scowl at Jaskier, a line through his forehead. Jaskier has seen this scowl countless times, but it never fails to knock him unjustly in the gut like a blow. Geralt has the most beautiful lips, and it’s becoming increasingly clear Jaskier will _never_ kiss them. Or suck a collar of marks into his thick neck. Or bite the firm, muscular curve of his ass before licking his way between the cheeks. He could make Geralt feel so fucking _good,_ but instead, Geralt is determined to resign himself to near fatal injuries forever. “I don’t care about glory, Bard. You know that. _You_ are the one who writes stories.” 

Jaskier doesn’t respond in anything beyond a wordless mumble. He just applies a generous helping of numbing potion to the gashes with his bare fingers, since it is all Geralt will let him do. 

—-

Jaskier is very drunk, trying desperately to stay warm beside a dying fire in a tiny, horrible cabin in the middle of nowhere because that’s where Geralt’s latest job has led him, and Jaskier does not know how to do anything but follow, at this point. He had only _just_ been pondering how truly terrible it was that he knew what Geralt’s ass looked like in _such_ horrible detail he could draw it lovingly from memory if he were tasked to do so when Geralt bursts through the door, limping. 

“Oh, goodie, hello, Witcher,” Jasper slurs. “Did you kill the foul beastie? Can we go back to civilization, soon? I miss liquor we didn’t brew ourselves from twigs.” 

“Injured,” Geralt forces out in a grunt.

Jaskier perks up at that, standing unsteadily so he can stumble to Geralt and examine him for injuries since that’s apparently all he’s good for, anymore. He hasn’t even written a song in _days,_ because everything comes out to transparent and self-pitying in it’s pining. _His clever hands. His beautiful mouth._ These aren’t drinking songs, they’re _love songs,_ and it’s mortifying. “What did it do to you this time?” 

“ _It’s_ injured,” Geralt snaps, grabbing Jaskier by the shoulders to stop him in his tracks, grip firm and punishing. “Not me.” 

“Um, you can barely walk straight,” Jaskier says, gesturing to the way Geralt winces when he puts weight on his left leg. “Let me get a look at it, come on. Drop trou.” 

Geralt studies him, eyes flashing, perfect mouth twisting down at the corners. “ _You_ cannot walk straight.” 

“Just let me see what it _did_ to your most valuable asset,” Jaskier slurs, trying his hardest to move the immovable mass that is Geralt. He can barely do such a thing sober, so drunk he merely crumbles against him, folding into the solidity of his chest, face pressed into his throat where he smells of snow and soot and salt and horse. It makes his cock twitch in his small-clothes, because Jaskier is a vile, dirty creature who lusts after his perhaps fatally wounded friend even when he is fatally wounded. “You’re not fatally wounded, are you?” he mumbles against Geralt’s Adam’s apple. It bobs deliciously as he swallows, rough with stubble. This is where that man got to put his mouth, where _countless men_ who are _not_ Jaskier have probably gotten to put _their_ mouths, and it’s not fucking fair. All Jaskier gets to do it push a needle repetitively through his ass-skin without even getting to kiss it better for luck. The universe is a cruel and fickle mistress.

“I am not even wounded,” Geralt tells him, patting his back instead of prying him off, which is a small act of misguided charity, Jaskier assumes. “It pulled a dead tree out of the ground and threw it at me as it ran off. I was struck, tripped. That’s how I lost it. It’s weak, though, I should be able to finish it off tonight.” 

“You were _struck_ with an entire _tree?_ Not wounded my _ass,_ Witcher. You’re _not_ going out to kill this thing, let it find some _hole_ to die in.” 

“ _My_ ass, actually,” Geralt says dryly, voice rumbling through his chest and, subsequently, Jaskier’s. It feels like the loneliest, loveliest of earthquakes and he melts into it, head spinning. “There might be a scrape, or a bruise. I don’t need you to look at it, but if you’d feel better—”

“Yes, that, let me look at it,” Jaskier demands. “Don’t rob me of my one scant, tragic pleasures in life you insufferable brute.” 

Geralt says nothing, just unlaces his armor methodically, rough fingers moving on leather laces. Its dizzying, and Jaskier finds himself sinking to the floor beside the bed expectantly. The bed is an awful little thing, to small for either of them, really, though Geralt of course insists he take it because he doesn’t _sleep,_ too busy pacing the perimeter and brooding, maybe. Jaskier groans audibly as he watches Geralt shuck his leathers before pulling his trousers down beneath the pert, maddening shelf of his ass. He turns his back to Jaskier, weight off-set so he looks like a goddamned statue, a dappled red bruise there on the left cheek like a massive wine-stain. Jaskier gasps, hand moving without his consent to alight briefly and gently on the swollen skin. He runs his fingers down the mark ever so softly, shifting closer on his knees. He’s perfectly level with the contusion, which is approximately the same size as his two palms, where they held open and side by side to receive coin, rather than pressed together to pray. “My goodness,” he breathes, licking his lips because he can smell Geralt’s, strong musky sweat and that always makes him drool. “That’s going to darken up tomorrow. Does it hurt?” 

“Hm,” Geralt murmurs, skin dimpling suddenly into gooseflesh as Jaskier messily exhales out onto his bruise. “No. Not so much as other things.” 

Jaskier does not know what other things he is speaking of. His eyes are watering so he blinks, hypnotized by the way his own hand looks tracing gently up and down the afflicted skin. He’s never really been presented with Geralt’s ass at this _exact_ angle. He’s usually on his stomach or side while Jaskier stitches him up, and though that image is certainly enough to send the blood surging unfairly to his cock, there’s something to be said about sitting on ones knees at the foot of a man. His hand looks pale upon the dark, uneven maroon. “Will you allow me to clean it?” be breathes, hating how he sounds like someone at confession, whispering sins. 

“The skin is barely broken. It doesn’t need to be cleaned,” Geralt says, but he sounds weary, as if he’s already decided to take pity on Jaskier. “But…if you must.” He unclips the anti-inflammatory medicine from his belt and twists at the waist to push it into Jaskier’s tremulous grip. “Here.” 

Time is moving in slow, hazy motion. Jaskier is no longer sure if it’s because he’s drunk or if he even _is_ drunk anymore. He might just be drunk on the way Geralt smells, all spice and leather and sweat and—his _ass,_ right there, mere inches away from his own lips as he pitches messily forward to uncork the bottle.

Normally he would use a rag, but he is not in his right mind right now, and his hands are clean as far as he remembers. He shakes out a few drops of the potion into his palm and then, without preamble, gently smears the oil directly onto Geralt’s skin. 

He hisses, not like he’s hurt, but like he’s stunned. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there, grip on his trousers loosening so that they sink a few more inches, pooling on the ground, at his boots. Jaskier is close, _so close,_ and drinking his fill in a way he hasn’t let himself, before. He can see Geralt’s ball-sac, lightly furred and red and _heavy_ , hanging there and clearly visible from behind. It would be too big to fit the entirety in his mouth, he’d have to settle for sucking one at the time, rolling them under his tongue, drooling into their dark-blonde curls. Without even realizing it’s happening, Jaskier whimpers, cock more than half-hard as he sways.

He hears Geralt’s mouth open, a wet sound followed by a moment of silence before he very, very quietly murmurs, “I can feel your breath.” 

“You—what?” Jaskier mumbles back, and then he feels his breath _himself,_ on the back of his hand as he rubs the oil in, motions getting broader, greedier. He’s touching well outside the outer-most borders of the bruise, out to Geralt’s hip, down to his thigh, dangerously close to the humid crease between his cheeks. And what's worse, he’s so close his exhalations are a palpable thing. “Oh. My breath? Where, um, exactly? Can you feel it? ” He asks dumbly, knowing he should sit back, but somehow unable to move. He feels bound here, _stuck,_ magnetized by Geralt’s flesh. 

Geralt reaches around, and palms gently over the bruise. “Here,” he whispers. “Everywhere.” Like he cannot believe it, but also like he’s curious. Perhaps awed. Maybe even devastated. Jaskier can hardly make sense of it because his ears are ringing yet again, and he can’t see his face.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier confesses then, voice withered with equal parts shame and longing. “I am _so_ sorry, Geralt, I—you must know. How much it tempts me, to see you like this. To touch you like this, after I’m left _sick_ worrying that you’ve—that you’re—“ he cuts himself off, unable to even say it aloud, the words sticking in his throat sharp and painful.

Geralt makes a broken sound, and coming from a different man, Jaskier might take it as a ragged, painful laugh. From Geralt it sounds animal, though. Like something from heaven, or hell. He reaches around again, this time to grip his un-bruised cheek and pull it away from the other, exposing himself where he’s darkest, dampest. Jaskier’s mouth is so flooded it overflows, and he spits on the floor between his knees, gasping. “You may,” Geralt says then. “If you wish.” 

Jaskier does not wish, anymore, he _needs,_ and he is so wholly overcome with that need he can’t even _wonder_ what’s come over Geralt in this moment, why he caved, what _changed._ He’s just grateful for it, breath coming out in a hiccuping sob as he sways forward and begins to mouth over whatever he can reach. There’s no science to it, no aim. He just wants skin, and hair, and heat, to drown in it all. “I can—you’ll let me taste you?” he gasps against fever. 

“Yes,” Geralt grits out, like it pains him. “You may—“ and then he cuts himself off with choked sound. “Do what you will.” 

Jaskier _will._ He’s trembling all over, lips wet from his tongue, from the salt-sharp patina of sweat that’s sprung to Geralt’s skin. He inhales shakily, stunned by the way he can smell Geralt _everywhere,_ the overwhelming, nervy pang of musk and man madness-inducing, mouth watering. Geralt is still holding himself open with a strong, veiny hand, and to ensure he doesn’t move Jaskier covers that hand with his own, gazing with tear-bleary eyes down at the dark, fluttering pucker. He’s thought about this so many times, _fantasized_ about what it might be like to part the strong, muscular cheeks and flick his tongue between them, but even in his wildest dreams of such things, he never imagined it _so_ wildly, powerfully _dizzying._ He can hardly stay upright on his distantly aching knees as he licks his way closer, pressing the whole of his face—his nose, his _chin,_ the hungry wound of his mouth—into Geralt’s ass crack. 

He can hear Geralt’s labored breath, over the sound of blood rushing in his own ears. He sounds like he’s hurting, or perhaps like he’s just fought off a monster, and the sound of it is oddly, comfortingly familiar as Jaskier groans, licking in broad, desperate swaths over his rim. He’s _tight,_ the whole of him clenching and resisting even as he cracks himself apart like ripe fruit. Jaskier is determined, though. He’ll stay here for hours, drooling and sucking and gasping until the vice breaches, if that’s what it takes. “Gods,” he chokes out, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones, the hand he does not have messily trapping Geralt’s squeezing his other cheek roughly, forgetting the bruise. “You—I’ve _dreamed_ of this. Longed for it.” 

Geralt’s quads are flickering, and then a knee buckles, or something else inside him weakens and snaps. So suddenly he’s bending over the side of the bed, One elbow braced, there, face pressed into the sheets. “Jaskier,” he gasps, rocking back into his sloppy mouth, the desperate flick of his tongue. “Will you—here, _please,”_ he grits out, fumbling out from under Jaskier’s grip to thumb roughly into his own bruise. “Touch it.” 

Jaskier is not very good at hurting people during sex, in fact he freezes up nearly every time someone has demanded it, but he’s _licking_ Geralt of Rivia’s _asshole_ right now and he doesn’t want to fuck that up, so without further preamble he scrambles closer on his knees, presses his chest into the strong backs of Geralt’s thighs, and digs his nails right into the center of his bruise. The skin feels broken and puffy under his fingers but the sound Geralt makes—absolved, healed, _yearning,_ keeps him from balking. Instead he whimpers right into him, struggling to breathe as he flicks his tongue back for forth over his hole, pressing the tip of it right into the center where he’s made everything a drool-slick mess. He wants _inside,_ he wants to open Geralt _up,_ break down at least _one_ of his fucking walls. 

His jaw aches, his lips are raw, but as he thumbs deeply into Geralt’s bruise, he can _feel_ him beginning to twitch and soften. He pulls back gasping, cheeks flushed and wet with his own saliva. “Fuck, _fucking_ gods, Geralt,” he breathes, rubbing his trembling index finger over tight, furled muscle. “I’ll do this for _hours,_ all night, if you like. You could lay me out on the bed and sit on me, crush me under you and ride my tongue and I wouldn’t stop. So, you can fucking _relax._ I’m not _going_ anywhere,” he says in a rush, not sure if he’s making sense, if the hungry knots in his stomach and his own achingly hard cock have robbed him of his sanity. He just feels like Geralt is _resisting_ him somehow, still, like he won’t let himself just _enjoy_ a tongue in his ass, fingers in his bruise. “You should know by now, you can’t get rid of me,” he confesses breathlessly.

Geralt laughs into his arm, and it’s a comforting, broken sound. “I know,” he mumbles. “Come back.” 

“ _Gladly,”_ Jaskier slurs, and kisses his way back to Geralt’s hole with hungry lips. He _does_ seem looser after Jaskier’s speech, so something about it must have been reassuring. He groans into the spicy, humid ditch, pressing a series of heavy, wet kisses to his rim before resuming his licks. Everything is wet, and slick, and then, so suddenly, he’s pushing up inside. _Yes_ he thinks frantically, rutting his cock against Geralt’s legs. _Fucking yes._

Geralt immediately pushes him right back out, gasping audibly against the sheets, hips bucking and _fuck,_ yes, _please,_ Jaskier wants him like this. Hungry and rutting and terrifying, too strong to contain, like a storm. He dives back in, gripping his cheeks white-knuckle tight as he fucks his tongue back into his hole, forcing it open each deep, devouring push. “Jaskier, _fuck,”_ Geralt huffs out in a low growl, reaching around to get a fistful of Jaskier’s hair and drag him closer as he backs up into him, spearing himself on his tongue. 

Jaskier actually sees stars. He thinks he might _die,_ here, that Geralt of Rivia is set to suffocate him with his ass, and he’s honestly _fine_ with it. Better than fine. This might be the finest and luckiest moment of his life, so he just lets it happen, mouth open and drooling, tongue sore to the point of weakness as he tries to keep licking even though he’s absolutely not breathing. He’s got Geralt’s blunt fingers digging into his scalp, and he can’t move, and even if he _could_ he probably wouldn’t. This is exactly where he wants to be. Where he’s wanted to be for _ages,_ and he’s not about to give that up from fear of a little oxygen deprivation induced brain damage. He’s not _weak._

Luckily, moments before his vision gives way to static Geralt releases him, and he falls away limp and gasping. He’s about to struggle back into position when Geralt stops him, rolling over onto his back at the edge of the bed so his thick, dripping _cock_ is in Jaskier’s face instead of his ass. “Oh bloody _hell,”_ Jaskier whines, voice nothing but a hoarse snag as he stares, hands moving to curl around the impressive shaft. “Tell me, what purpose does it serve to be _so_ massively endowed? Seems like it would be a _disadvantage,_ as a Witcher. Plus, you can’t reproduce, what is even the _point_ if not to torture the poor cocksluts who follow you around singing about how tragic a state it is to be unrequitedly in love with you?” He’s rubbing his cheek up against it reverently, mouth all frothy with longing again when he realizes, with horror, what he’s just said. “I mean—“

Geralt _was_ petting his hair, but now he’s gripping it fiercely, eyes flashing like amber. “You talk too much,” he says. “You say things you don’t mean.” 

“I may talk too much,” Jaskier admits, inhaling deeply from the dark blonde curls at the base of Geralt’s cock, opening his mouth over the length of it, stomach swooping at the intimidating thickness. “But unfortunately, I hardly _ever_ say things I don’t mean.” 

He swirls his tongue along the underside, kissing his way to the crown, which is red-purple and shiny with precum, the slit of it flexing open every few seconds to push out more and _god,_ he would like very much to renounce his singing career to have his mouth used for this and this alone for the rest of his fucking _life._ He sucks a few greedy inches down, and Geralt hisses and jerks under him, palm flexing at the back of his skull. “Jaskier,” he prays, thumbing gently—almost _tenderly_ at the corner of his stretched tight mouth. And then, without any further warning, he’s tensing up and bucking into Jaskier’s throat and coming in hot, salty pulses. So fast, but even more shocking, so _much._

It’s more come than Jaskier has ever had in his mouth in the whole of his life, which is saying a lot because swallowing multiple loads from multiple men is among his more well-practiced talents. It comes in _torrents,_ though, so much he chokes and more than half of it escapes the seal of his mouth and drips down Geralt’s cock to his pubic hair, white on white, so much pearlescent shine Jaskier thinks he’s losing his vision to static again. “Gods, they really outdid themselves when they were making this thing didn’t they,” he sputters out between coughs, pulling off messily as he pitches down to lick whatever he lost back up. He’s so hard it’s making him feel crazy, so he doesn’t even think as he reaches down and hastily undoes the buttons of his trousers to finally get a hand around his cock. 

And there, while he eats up the rest of Geralt’s come and jacks himself off between his spread wide knees, Geralt is petting him ever so gently. Thumbing away sweaty hair from his brow, rubbing the tears from the corners of his eyes into his temples. It’s confusing, really, to be touched so sweetly by a man who’s just come. Jaskier is so used to bedding reluctant, self-hating men among their more eager sons, he assumed Geralt might be the type to kick him away and pretend it never happened if this thing he’s craved so powerfully ever actually happened. He resigned himself to that potential, it being an end of sorts. 

Instead, Geralt is scratching at his scalp, rubbing his knuckles over the hot skin at the back of his neck. “Come here,” he orders eventually, tugging him up by his hair. “Let me see you.” 

Jaskier glances up, knowing he looks an absolute mess: red cheeks, sweat and come and ass all over him, eyes flint-black with pupil from having been so painfully aroused so long. Geralt studies him though, frowns like he’s in pain, thumbs over his swollen lower lip. “I tried resisting you for so _fucking_ long,” he grinds out, pushing a thumb into the slick of Jaskier’s mouth. He sucks reflexively, still tugging on his cock in clumsy, needy strokes. “But you’re…you don’t stop. And you’re so _goddamned_ beautiful.” 

It twists low and hot and remarkable in Jaskier’s gut, making his lashes flutter, his breath catch. He pulls off of Geralt’s thumb slowly and what he hopes is seductively, though he’s really questioning his seduction skills in this moment. He's been throwing himself at this man for _years,_ but apparently it took him sloppy and drunk and beside himself on the floor at ass-level for Geralt to break. It doesn’t make sense. “I think I’m more cute and plucky than beautiful, but I’ll take the compliment, Witcher. You, on the other hand, are an otherworldly masterpiece.” 

Geralt looks amused as he hauls Jaskier up, manhandles him into the bed beside him. The terrible mattress is hardly big enough for one of them let alone both, so Jaskier is left _clutching_ at Geralt’s shoulders to stay upon it, their bodies flush and tangled. 

Before he can even joke about the compromising position they've just ended up in, Geralt shocks him silent by cupping his cheek, pressing their brows together, and staring intently at his gasping mouth like he’s thinking of kissing it. It seems absurd, but stranger things have happened, he supposes. Stranger things like this astounding turn of events in the first place. Jaskier licks his lips, inches forward, and then, like a miracle, Geralt is humming gently, and licking right into him. 

Being _kissed_ by Geralt makes his cock twitch even harder than sucking Geralt off. It’s stomach turning in its intimacy, hot and slick lacking in _any_ resistance or fear. Geralt kisses him deep, nips at his lips, sucks his tongue. He doesn’t _stop_ kissing him even as he reaches down between the messy friction of their bodies to tug Jaskier’s trousers beneath his balls, freeing his cock so that he can curl a fist around it, and touch with confidence, with _greed,_ even. 

Jaskier is perfectly well-endowed, but Geralt has massive fists, so he feels totally engulfed in rough, searing heat as Geralt tugs on him, twisting at the crown rhythmic and firm and so _practiced_ Jaskier would be jealous if he had a single braincell left to feel anything but overwhelming pleasure and sheer, messy joy at his luck. 

He comes _so_ fast it’s embarrassing, whimpering pathetically in between Geralt’s hungry kisses. “Fuck,” Geralt murmurs, looking down at him as he thrusts into his palm, back arching, come falling in ribbons across his stomach, his rucked up tunic. “Better than I dreamed,” he adds then, almost in a whisper like Jaskier was not intended to hear such an admission. 

He laughs raggedly, sinking into the bed with his heart pounding, pulse speeding beneath Geralt’s lips. He cannot believe _any_ of this, but if he actually died drunk in front of the fire before Geralt returned some hours ago—-so be it. This truly is heaven. “You _dreamed_ of having me in an awful little straw hut in the middle of nowhere? Witcher if I’ve made appearances _in your dreams_ then why didn’t you let me lick your ass _sooner?_ I’m yours and I’ve _been_ yours you great, terrible fool, I thought you could tell from the one thousand pathetic love songs I’ve penned in your honor.” 

Geralt is quiet for a moment, rubbing his palm up and down Jaskier’s side thoughtfully, thumbing into the divots between his ribs one by one, like he intends to memorize his bones. “Everything is a joke to you,” he mumbles eventually, grip stilling, tight and possessive. “And nothing is a joke to me.” 

Jaskier forces his eyes open, still static dizzy and a little drunk as he lets his gaze fall on Geralt’s stoic, frowning profile. He reaches out messily with a weak wrist, and touches the gloriously sharp cut of his jaw “If you listened to my more _confessional_ lyrics you’d realize I only pretend to joke about everything so the bits which are _dead_ serious get lost in the fray. And being stupid in love with a stupid lovely Witcher is one of the dead serious bits.” 

Geralt looks _actually_ stricken by this information. After the initial blow he smiles every so slightly, one brow lifting in a nearly imperceptible increment but Jaskier notices all the same. He grins back, feeling like he just died, like he’d been reborn in a kinder world where he might actually get the things he wants, instead of endlessly tripping after them with an outstretched hand seeking stardust. “Ok,” Geralt says then, shifting up the bed to pull Jaskier into his arms properly, head pillowed on his broad pectoral muscle.

“Ok? That’s all you have to say for yourself?” Jaskier mumbles, though he’s secretly quite alright with _ok_ if it means he gets to stay here, ear pressed to the slow, drawn out plod of a Witcher’s heartbeat. It is enough, for now. He can pry and prod and extract more later, he’s gotten quite proficient in digging around Geralt’s wounds with needles and tweezers. 

“Hm,” Geralt mumbles, thumbing over the shell of Jaskier’s ear, folding it down before carding his fingers gently through his hair. And that—that is enough, too. Jaskier closes his eyes, and counts steady thuds until he’s lulled to sleep. 


End file.
